Years passed like the slow sweep of the palace’s shadow, carving out the contours of Àsábi’s world. She grew beneath watchful eyes—never quite inside the circle, never fully banished. The women of the court treated her as a delicate question. Some days, she woke to find charms of red string at the door to her chamber, knotted tightly around stones as warnings. Other times, Saraya herself would teach Àsábi the way to fold linens with silent precision, her hands heavy on Àsábi’s wrists if she moved too quickly or too slow. The Oba, true to his word, claimed her loudly at feasts, introduced her in the open court: “My daughter, Àsábi, chosen by fate, untouched by spirit.”
The city’s children circled her in the wide courtyards, their eyes darting over her, whispering of curses and power. Even their mothers glanced away, as if the shadow clinging to her might leap from skin to skin. She learned silence as an inheritance, wearing it like a second robe. But she watched always: the way warriors sharpened their blades before dawn, the way petitions were spoken and denied, the way Saraya’s hand trembled just before she poured the morning ọtí for the Oba.
It was on the eve of her thirteenth year that the palace began to change. The Oba had not risen from his mat in three mornings. The sounds of drums grew anxious, rumbling beneath the stone floors. The palace’s breath was held in suspense, and Àsábi felt, for the first time, the eyes of the world sliding toward her—not as a curiosity, but an expectation. She slipped out before sunrise, the hem of her borrowed wrapper whispering across cool tiles, and made her way toward the Oba’s chamber. Two guards stood outside, men with faces carved from stone, but they stepped aside as if she were made of smoke.
Inside, the room felt smaller, choked by the weight of incense. The Oba’s face was drawn and pale, his eyes burning with fever. Saraya knelt at his side, wringing a damp cloth. She looked up as Àsábi entered, something like relief—sharp and dangerous—flickering over her face.
“He asks for you,” Saraya whispered. “None of us know why.”
The Oba’s hand drifted toward her, beckoning. Àsábi moved to his side, kneeling. His skin was hot, his breath rattling. When he opened his eyes, the king who had once carried her from the forest was there still: proud, unafraid.
“Child,” he rasped, “they will test you now. The chiefs gather in the outer court, naming the old stories again. They believe you are nothing—still no spirit, still no essence. But I have seen what they cannot. There is a power in being born with nothing to lose.”
He gripped her wrist, the pressure startling, urgent. “Go to the Wisdom Tree at the palace boundary. Fetch a branch before sunrise. Bring it, and none can deny you. Fail, and…”
His breath shuddered. Saraya pressed the cloth to his brow. The king’s eyes locked on Àsábi, fierce.
“Go, daughter. Let them see.”
The words rang in the close air. Outside, the first call of birds marked the beginning of the day. Àsábi rose, her heartbeat a wild animal against her ribs, and left the chamber. The corridor beyond was empty, the palace wrapped in hush, but at the far end, two shadows waited, figures she knew: Adéweyọkenó, the wary counsellor, and the Oba’s eldest war captain, Olumide, both blocking the path that led toward the sacred boundary.
Adéweyọkenó’s voice echoed softly. “Girl. You do not belong to this house, nor should you walk to the Wisdom Tree. Return to your room, let tradition act.”
Olumide’s hand hovered at his sword, but his gaze held something unreadable. The way forward was blocked, yet the weight of the king’s final charge pressed against Àsábi’s shoulders, urging her on. The palace seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her to act.